My neighbor cuts nearby trees in preparation for a typhoon

Source

The radio crackled with static, the weatherman's frantic voice battling to be heard over the rising wind. Rain lashed against the window, blurring the world outside into a watery mess. I glanced across the street, my gaze drawn to the frantic activity in Mr. Henderson's yard.

Mr. Henderson, my gruff but kind neighbor, was a man of old-fashioned ways. He kept a meticulously groomed lawn and a vegetable garden that produced enough bounty for the entire neighborhood. Now, however, his usual serenity was replaced by a determined urgency. He was wielding a chainsaw, its metallic growl a counterpoint to the storm's roar.

Earlier that day, the news had been abuzz with warnings about Hurricane Darius, a Category 3 monster churning its way up the coast. It was on a direct collision course with our town, and the predictions weren't good. High winds, torrential rain, potential flooding – the list of threats seemed endless.

Intrigued, I grabbed a raincoat and ventured outside. The wind whipped at my face, carrying an icy chill. As I crossed the street, I saw Mr. Henderson struggling with a particularly thick branch.

"Mr. Henderson," I called out, my voice barely above a whisper against the wind. "Need some help?"

He looked up, surprise flickering across his weathered face. "Ah, Sarah. No need, my dear. Just getting things in order before Darius decides to pay us a visit."

I hesitated, then said, "But why are you cutting down the trees?"

A weary sigh escaped his lips. "Hurricanes love tall objects, Sarah. They use them like battering rams. These beauties would be the first to go, taking down power lines and potentially damaging houses."

I understood. My house, a charming but slightly rickety Victorian, wouldn't stand a chance against a falling tree. A shiver ran down my spine.

"Isn't it dangerous to be out here with the storm already starting?" I asked, concern lacing my voice.

Mr. Henderson chuckled, a low rumble that surprised me. "Grown up with these storms, Sarah. You learn a thing or two. I have enough time to handle the essentials before it gets too rough."

He surveyed his work with a satisfied nod. A few more branches lay on the ground, neatly cut and stacked.

"There," he said, wiping his brow. "Should hold the worst at bay."

The wind seemed to pick up in response, a deep, ominous howl that sent a flock of birds scattering in panic. It was time for me to head back inside.

"Thank you, Mr. Henderson," I called out, gratitude heavy in my voice.

He gave me a gruff nod, a ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "You stay safe, Sarah. Darius may be a bruiser, but we can weather him together."

Back inside, the radio's static had finally given way to a somber piano piece. The storm raged on, but I felt a strange sense of security, a calm born of Mr. Henderson's wisdom and selflessness. He'd not only protected his own home, but potentially spared mine and others on the street from the storm's fury.

As the storm peaked, the wind a banshee's wail, I found myself gazing out at the remaining trees swaying precariously. Each gust seemed a test they were determined to pass. Thanks to Mr. Henderson's foresight, though, they faced the challenge alone. The sound of the chainsaw might have felt ominous before, but now it echoed in my mind as a reassuring lullaby, a testament to the quiet strength of a good neighbor.